I visited the doctor two weeks ago. They weighed me, and I have grown two pounds. Everyone was happy. Don't these fools realize that at this rate, I'll be 278 pounds by the age of two?

For some reason my body occasionally convinces itself that I am falling, so my arms and legs shoot out like I'm one of those acrobatic parachutists. Daddy thinks this is funny. Wait until I pee on his favorite dress shirt.

Parents took me to church yesterday. Lots of women took turns holding me. I thought this might be snack time, but apparently only Mommy is capable of producing milk. I knew she was special. The preacher talked about heaven and forgiveness and living the right way. I think there's a clause somewhere that covers me for the next few years, however.

They took me to the doctor today for a "check up." Brother was deliriously happy that it was I, and not he, who was to be poked and prodded by Dr. Mengele. I signaled my disgust with the whole affair by peeing on the doctor's examination table. For extra effect I launched a salvo over my own head onto the pillow. Can't just wipe that down, can you?

Note to self: Mother seems to prefer that I detach from the nipple before I turn my head to look at something.

The family has decided that I'm cute. Apparently I was not cute immediately after I was born. I infer this from the way Daddy would look at his feet and change the subject whenever anyone asked if he wanted a picture taken of me. But now that my head is no longer misshapen, suddenly I'm everybody's buddy.

Sycophants. The worst part is that they all want to kiss me now. First, have these people not heard of germ theory? Second, I'm in full on nursing mode, which means that I'm assuming anything that comes near my cheek is a nipple. Ever take a sip of your orange juice when you meant to drink from the milk glass instead? Change milk to "nipple" and orange juice to "Daddy's nose," and you'll get a sense of what I'm talking about here.

By the way, if you want to get a look at a poor baby trying to sleep while some overly sentimental boob tries to capture the moment, you can see my picture here.

My parents seem to think that this rubber pacifier will somehow convince me that I'm not hungry. I don't see any of them picking up the plastic apples in the fake fruit bowl and gnawing on them around dinner time, however. They must mistake my physical immaturity for stupidity. I'd cook a meal for myself if I could just get these treacherous hands to cooperate. They even foil my attempts to find sustenance from the pacifier; they creep up my chest and grab it from my mouth, entirely against my will. My only recourse is to cry, which I'm getting quite good at. I find that a shrill screech just as Mommy and Daddy have drifted off to sleep stimulates the most amusing response. I will begin a series of decibel and pitch experiments this evening.

I was born yesterday. The conditions are entirely unacceptable. The heated indoor swimming pool is gone, and I have found that poop is an unpleasant thing to feel against one's skin. There is some sort of ritual in the hospital whereby a staff member creeps in every time I fall asleep to poke me with something sharp. Parents cannot be trusted to protect me from this, though they appear sympathetic. I will consider their loyalty questionable for now. Had a circumcision today. I do not advise it. Imagine having Mr. Tinkle turned into a flaming hot pepper before your very eyes.

Mommy has become an entirely agreeable source of food. Apparently I have a brother, though I don't know what good he is; he can neither feed me nor change my diaper. He watches me with a mixture of curiosity and jealousy. Upon seeing me nursing, he seemed to want to ask Mommy: 1) who is this strange child attached to you, and 2) why did we ever stop doing that?

I will have to keep an eye on him.